


Something Elemental

by firstlightofeos



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Charles Is a Big Dorkface, Charles smells good, Crack, Dirty Talk, Emotionally Constipated Erik is Fun to Read, Erik Is a Big Dorkface Too, Erik Logic Is The Best Logic, Erik is Crushing Harder than a 12-year Old Girl, Erik's Fashion Sense Was the First Thing to Go, Erik: Stop Embarrassing Charles in Public, Five Times, Fluff, Gay Mutant Road Trip, Heaven Smells Like Axe Body Spray, Honestly Charles What Are You Thinking, Honeymoon, Humor, It's About Time, Kidnapping as Courtship, M/M, Metal Tentacles, Mutant Politics, Not omegaverse I swear, Olfactophilia, Oral Sex, Phone Sex, Post Beach, Post-Canon, Schmoop, So is Charles, Some (Non-graphic) Depictions of Violence, The Author Regrets Nothing, Viagra is Made of Rainbows and Orgasms, Weddings, X-Men First Class Kink Meme, oh boys, this will rot your teeth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-24
Updated: 2012-11-04
Packaged: 2017-11-16 22:22:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/544486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firstlightofeos/pseuds/firstlightofeos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Of all the things Charles had thought Erik might find arousing, the way he smelled wasn't one of them. It's...often inconvenient (and always groovy). </p><p> </p><p>Or: Five times Charles smells amazing, and one time he doesn't (but Erik thinks he does anyway).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. (1) 1962 - A motel somewhere in the middle of the country

**Author's Note:**

  * For [professor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/professor/gifts).



> Written for **[professor](http://archiveofourown.org/users/professor)** 's prompt on the kinkmeme that, inspired by Patrick Stewart's most recent appearance on The Daily Show, requested Charles smelling really good (particularly as a result of Axe Body Spray) and Erik finding it distracting/arousing. (Complete prompt [here](http://xmen-firstkink.livejournal.com/8700.html?thread=20216828#t20216828).)
> 
> Fic title from the following quote from Helen Keller: _Masculine exhalations are, as a rule, stronger, more vivid, more widely differentiated than those of women. In the odor of young men there is something elemental, as of fire, storm, and salt sea. It pulsates with buoyancy and desire. It suggests all the things strong and beautiful and joyous and gives me a sense of physical happiness._ [Replace "young men" with "Charles Xavier" and "me" with "Erik Lehnsherr," and you have this fic.]
> 
> This fic would not have happened without the help of **[unforgotten](http://archiveofourown.org/users/unforgotten)** , who held my hand through every step of this fic and was unbelievably patient with me as I brainstormed to her and angsted and whined and worried and forced her to read everything multiple times. If there is anything in here that you think is a little too ridiculous/out-there, uh...blame her, because she said I could include it. *grins* 
> 
> Additionally: this is crack, guys. Don't be deceived by the random detours into the lands of feelings and angst; this is, at its heart, as cracky as I get. As such, in keeping with the nature and demands of crackfic, Erik and Charles can be a bit OOC. I'm not sorry.

Charles is bored.

He and Erik have been sitting in their motel room for the past hour doing absolutely nothing, their latest recruiting effort an utter failure and the weather far too hot to even contemplate leaving their air-conditioned room. (Erik’s mutation has been a godsend during this heat wave, ensuring their AC units are always functioning at full capacity; Charles doesn’t even want to contemplate having to suffer through a room with a broken or semi-functional unit.) And while it’s true that their room is sweltering even with the AC on at full-blast, Charles can’t stand this idleness; he wants, needs, to do _something_ besides lying around and twiddling his thumbs like an oaf. But he’s already read everything he brought with him—twice—and Erik’s rebuffed all of Charles’s efforts to engage him in anything, and while a cold shower sounds tempting, it’s not as tempting as it’d be if there were any prospect of Charles getting Erik to join him.

It doesn’t help that Erik is acting...strange. 

Well, all right, that doesn’t really say anything; Erik is _always_ acting strange. But he’s being stranger than usual—which, Charles thinks, is saying something. 

Not five minutes after they entered their room, shedding their jackets and opening their shirt collars and rolling up their sleeves with relief, Erik planted himself in one of the (horribly uncomfortable) armchairs sitting in the corner of the room, and he hasn’t moved since, except to occasionally alter the angle of his head. But that’s not unusual; Erik’s displayed his ability to sit unnervingly still for hours on end on more than one occasion. 

No, what’s strange is that, every minute or so, Erik sniffs loudly, as if he’s got a cold, or as if there’s something rotten stinking up the room (as far as Charles can tell, there isn’t). It’s terribly irritating. 

Finally, Charles can’t take it any more. 

“ _What_ ,” he says loudly, striding over to stand in front of Erik. Erik starts and looks up at him. 

“What what?” he asks. 

“You’ve been—scenting the air, or something, for the past hour,” Charles says, frustration coloring his voice. “Are you ill? Did someone leave a ‘present’ in the bathroom? Is there a skunk that I’m not aware of?”

Erik shakes his head, looking distracted. “No, no.” He looks around the room, then sniffs again. Charles glares.

“Then what?” he demands, resisting the urge to throw his hands in the air.

“Can’t you smell it?” Erik asks. 

“Smell _what_?”

“Something in this room smells _amazing_ ,” Erik says, his face taking on a dreamy, vacant cast. Intrigued, Charles tilts his head to the side and...well, all right, he sniffs the air, too. 

“I...can’t tell,” he says after a moment. “Describe it?”

Erik thinks. “It smells like...wood, and leather, and a bit musky, but not unpleasantly so, with just a _hint_ of citrus.” He sniffs again. “You really can’t smell it? It just got much stronger.”

Charles inhales deeply through his nose, then shakes his head. “No, nothing.”

“Here,” Erik says. He stands and puts a hand to Charles’s temple. “Read it from my mind.”

Charles is immediately immersed in a whirl of sensation, that particular feel of Erik’s constantly thrumming sense of all the metal around them mixed with his hyperawareness of his environment and frustration with the heat, the scent he described overlaying everything else. Now that Charles knows what Erik’s talking about, he agrees that the smell is very nice, but it’s also oddly familiar...

_Oh._

Charles pulls out of Erik’s mind a little more suddenly than he usually would and backs away, trying to maintain his equilibrium. 

“Charles?” Erik asks, looking concerned. Ah. Not maintaining equilibrium very well, then.

“That smell,” Charles says, then hesitates.

“Yes?” 

“I, uh. I think it’s _me_.”

Erik tilts his head, his gaze considering. “Really?”

Before Charles can respond, Erik leans forward and sniffs _Charles_. Charles stiffens and resists the urge to run away as Erik does it again, then starts circling him, sniffing every few seconds. Charles is completely unprepared for Erik burying his face in the space between his shoulderblades and inhaling deeply—and even less prepared for the small groan Erik lets out, or the way it goes straight to Charles’s cock. For a brief, shining moment, he thinks this is the moment when Erik will finally (finally!) make his move. 

And then Erik _pulls away_ and says, his voice maddeningly even, “So it is.”

Disappointed, Charles turns around—and is treated to a fabulous view of Erik’s arse as he walks to the bed. He grins, thinking that perhaps not all is lost. But instead of telling Charles to get the hell over there so they can fuck each other silly, Erik pulls out the chessboard and says, “Well, now that we’ve solved that: feel like losing a game or two?”

Charles sighs. 

  
 

(The next morning, Charles makes sure to put on extra cologne after his shower. He’s rewarded for his effort: the instant he steps out of the bathroom, Erik’s eyes snap up, wide and dark with lust, and thirty seconds later, Charles is on the bed, making all sorts of embarrassing noises as Erik gives him the most fantastic blowjob he’s ever received.

The only sour note comes when Erik pauses in the middle of doing something truly _criminal_ with his tongue, pulls off, looks up at Charles, and says, “ _Charles._ Did you put cologne on your balls?”

“...I don’t have to answer that,” Charles says, blushing beet-red. Erik raises his eyebrows, giving Charles a smirk that says he’s not fooling anyone, and slides up to kiss him. 

“I like it,” he whispers. He then buries his face in Charles’s neck and inhales deeply as he jerks them both off.)


	2. (2) 1963 - A motel somewhere in the middle of the country (but a different one)

Charles hasn’t seen Erik in nearly a year. He’s trying very hard not to think about why that is, but it’s not easy when the first thing he sees upon waking (in a strange room, somewhere far from Westchester, and isn’t _that_ fun) is Erik sitting on the edge of the bed, wearing that awful helmet (even more awful now that Erik’s given it that eyesore of a paint job, and what the fuck are those horns? Is Erik a scarab beetle now?) and staring at Charles’s wheelchair with a gutted expression.

It figures that Erik would kidnap Charles (because that’s obviously what’s going on here) and then be the one who’s upset. 

“What the _fuck_ is going on?” Charles demands, pushing himself up to sit against the headboard. Erik immediately rushes forward to help him, but Charles waves him off with a glare. He’s spent eleven long months adjusting to living in a wheelchair, and Erik hasn’t been there for any of it; Charles doesn’t need Erik’s help, and he _certainly_ doesn’t want his pity. 

Erik backs away, visibly stung. Charles is unmoved. He’s been letting his anger against Erik build for months; like _hell_ is he going to let Erik’s current hangdog expression temper it.

...Well, all right, maybe a little. But only because Erik looks like he’s been just as miserable as Charles; there are new lines on his face, and he looks...weary. (Then again, this could also be explained by Erik’s decision to wear a heavy cape in the height of Indian Summer.)

Charles folds his arms across his chest and looks expectant. 

“Charles,” Erik croaks. “I...how have you been?”

“How do you _think_ I’ve been?” Charles snaps. Erik’s expression falls even further. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, looking away from Charles, his eyes landing on the wheelchair again. 

“Yes, I gathered as much when I got your very eloquent note.” It had been a small square of white paper left under the corner of Charles’s blotter—so small that he’d almost mistaken it for a piece of scrap and thrown it in his wastebasket—with _’Charles - Sorry’_ written across it in Erik’s elegant handwriting. “Courageous of you, sending your teleporter to leave me a two-word apology.” 

“I’ve been busy,” Erik replies. He doesn’t look up from the chair.

“Oh, yes, very busy blowing things up and committing general acts of terrorism, how much you’ve accomplished this year.” Charles’s glare intensifies, his voice taking on more bite. “I’m so _proud_.”

“I’ve been doing what needed to be done!” Erik retorts angrily, whirling to face him full-on. “They haven’t been idle, Charles, they’re starting to make lists and talk about monitoring us—”

“Which they wouldn’t feel the need to do if you’d just stop acting before you think!”

“Forty-two,” Erik yells back. “Forty-two mutants we’ve found in _government-sponsored_ laboratories this year. And those are only the ones we knew about. There are so many others, you don’t even know what they’re doing, you’ve been hiding in your mansion—”

“I,” Charles bites out, “have not. Been. Hiding.” He yanks the covers off his legs, flabby and useless in his pajamas, and prods at them. “I’ve been _recovering_ because someone saw fit not to practice basic gun safety!”

“I’ve already apologized,” Erik says, defensive. “How many times do I have to say I’m sorry?”

“A far sight more than you already have,” Charles retorts. He sighs, says more quietly, “I’m not sure it’ll ever be enough.” 

Charles suddenly feels tired, so tired, all his anger evaporating in an instant. He closes his eyes briefly before fixing them on the covers; he can’t bear to look at Erik right now. 

“You just...left, Erik.”

There’s a long pause. 

Finally, Erik replies, just as soft, “You wanted me to go.” 

“I did,” Charles agrees. His gaze seeks out Erik’s. “But in my defense, you’d just buried a bullet in my spine and threatened mass murder of hundreds of men. I wasn’t exactly thinking clearly. And then, after you found out I’d been paralyzed, you didn’t even visit _once_ , just apologized via a note you couldn’t even deliver yourself.” 

“I didn’t think you’d want to see me,” Erik says. “I...thought it’d be easier, for both of us.” He reaches out and takes Charles’s hand. “I _am_ sorry.” 

“I know.” Charles hesitates, then squeezes Erik’s hand. “I’m sorry, too.” 

Erik leans forward tentatively and then, when Charles makes no move to stop him, he buries his head in Charles’s chest. The helmet digs in uncomfortably, but Charles doesn’t protest.

“I’ve missed you,” Erik mumbles. 

“And I you,” Charles says quietly, reaching up to stroke Erik’s back gently through the cape. They stay like that for a few minutes, and then Charles gently nudges Erik’s head off his chest. Erik sits up and moves back a bit. 

“Erik,” Charles says firmly, “why am I here, really?”

Erik’s face shutters, and Charles is reminded just how bizarre it is to see Erik’s expressions without feeling the emotions behind them. 

“I can’t just have wanted to see you?” Erik asks. Charles raises an eyebrow. 

“Eleven months with barely a word, and suddenly you decide you want to see me, _and_ make sure I’m out of telepathic range of the mansion?” he says. “Very convenient, don’t you think?”

“Believe what you like,” Erik says, surly. “You won’t get it out of me.” 

“No?” Charles asks. He reaches beside him to turn up the (very conveniently located) air conditioning unit, tugs down the neck of his pajamas, and tilts his head to the side. 

He can see the moment the air reaches Erik—more specifically, Erik’s nose. Erik’s pupils dilate and he leans forward hungrily. After a moment, he...sniffs.

Charles smirks. 

He’d tried changing his cologne in the immediate aftermath of Cuba, when wearing it reminded him of Erik. But he’d been using it for ages—since Oxford, at least—and every other brand he’d tried had been...disorienting. He’s aware of the way sense-memory works; he knows that if he’d stuck with another scent he’d have grown used to it in time. But with everything else around him changing, Charles had instead chosen to cling to the few familiar comforts that remained. He kept the habit he’d developed of re-applying his cologne every night before bed, too, not quite finding the will to break it.

Maybe it makes him an idiot, or a sentimental fool, but right now, he’s not regretting it one bit—especially not when Erik closes the distance between them and kisses Charles, hesitant and unsure. Charles responds eagerly, his mouth opening under Erik’s, and Erik surges forward, straddling Charles and kissing him like a man starved. 

There’s only one thing wrong. 

Charles pushes Erik back gently. “Helmet,” he says quietly. “Erik, I can’t...not with you still wearing that.”

Erik looks conflicted. “Charles...” 

Charles sighs and presses his hand against Erik’s chest, putting a few more inches between them. “I’m sorry, but it really is non-negotiable. I can’t feel you at all; you’re just...empty.” He waves his other hand, searching for the best way to explain. “You’re not there.”

The air conditioner gusts suddenly; Erik closes his eyes as the air hits him. Charles can see him thinking, and waits with bated breath for his decision.

“I—all right,” Erik says, finally. He opens his eyes and places his hands on either side of the helmet. “I trust you. But—” 

“I won’t go fishing,” Charles promises quickly. Erik nods, takes a deep breath, and pulls the helmet off in one smooth movement, dropping it to the floor and letting it roll away. 

And oh, there it is, there’s Erik’s mind, glorious and shimmering and perfect and familiar. Charles holds himself back from completely burying himself in it, though it’s a close thing. He allows himself to trail his mental fingers through Erik’s surface thoughts, and they both shiver. 

Then Charles opens his arms, and Erik goes to him, nuzzling his neck and inhaling deeply. 

“You smell good,” he mutters. Charles laughs, a bit shakily; Erik’s breath, warm on his skin, is far more arousing than it used to be. It doesn’t help that he’s still feeling light-headed from this entire situation, from waking up in a strange place to see _Erik_ of all people, yelling and kissing as if no time has passed at all. But he can’t fall apart now; he’ll save that for later, for when Erik can’t see. 

So: laughing, joking. He can do that. 

“Only good?” Charles asks teasingly, carding his fingers through Erik’s hair. “I used to smell amazing.”

“Mm,” Erik rumbles, licking Charles’s neck. Charles gasps loudly. “You still do.” He makes a great show of breathing in, and they both burst out laughing. They still sound nervous around the edges, but it’s...progress. 

Charles gently nudges Erik up to kiss him, opening his mind just a little more and indulging in the amplified and ever-so-slightly echoed sensations. Erik moans as he feels it, too. 

He then reaches up to unfasten his cape clumsily, throwing it aside before setting to work on the rest of that ridiculous costume, which has far too many hooks and ends up requiring Charles’s help. Thankfully, Charles’s clothes are much simpler to deal with. He has a moment of hesitation when his bare legs are revealed for the first time, and tries to pull up the covers to hide them, but Erik shakes his head, leaning down. Charles sucks in a breath as he watches Erik dot kisses all over the unfeeling flesh. 

Erik hesitates when he reaches Charles’s cock, which has stayed stubbornly limp through all of this. 

“Do you—can you—” he starts, then trails off. 

“Not often,” Charles says, finding he can talk about this with less bitterness than he’d thought. “Manual stimulation can usually get it at least a little interested, but—I can’t really feel it, and I rarely get all the way to orgasm.” He tugs Erik up gently and kisses him. “You’d be much better off," he whispers against Erik's mouth, "with things above the waist.” He draws one of Erik's hands up to his nipple; Erik takes the hint and starts massaging it, his other hand moving to stroke Charles’s neck as Charles groans. 

“Yes,” Charles gasps out, “like—that.” He arches, baring his throat, and Erik buries his face in the juncture of his neck and shoulder, projecting just how much he loves how Charles smells and how he’s missed that and how he can’t get enough and how _hard_ Erik is just from that alone. Charles makes a sort of keening noise as Erik punctuates all that with a nip to his pulse point, then reaches for Erik’s cock and starts pumping it roughly, losing himself in the noises Erik makes as he comes apart. 

Erik comes calling Charles’s name, thrusting into his hand with abandon, hands moving wildly over Charles’s chest and back and his nose still glued to Charles’s neck. Charles feels the echo of Erik’s orgasm just as his own arousal peaks, and he grins to himself, squeezing Erik’s flagging cock one last time. Erik whines in protest, and Charles laughs lightly before he starts rubbing Erik’s back, gentling him. 

“Love you,” Erik mumbles into Charles’s shoulder. Charles freezes up for a moment before he resumes his petting. 

“Love you, too.” 

It’s not perfect—far from—but for now, it’ll do.

  
 

(Later, when they’re tangled naked together in the bed, sweaty but mostly clean after toweling themselves off, Charles says, “So...this really _was_ your intention when kidnapping me, then.”

Erik doesn’t say anything, but his mind suddenly lights up, and Charles can’t help but overhear. He shoves Erik away and sits up, yelling, “EMMA FROST IS USING CEREBRO RIGHT NOW?” Now that he’s thinking about it, he can feel the faint hum in the back of his mind that indicates a powerful telepath thousands of miles away making use of amplification technology.

“In my defense,” Erik mumbles into the pillow, “you were never supposed to know.”

“Not the issue!” Charles replies. He tugs at Erik’s arm. “Come on, you’re taking me back. Right now.”

“Can’t,” Erik says, not getting up. “Gotta wait for Azazel.” 

“Ugh,” Charles says, pulling himself as far away as he can get while still remaining on the bed. Erik finally bothers to shift himself, leaning up on one elbow and looking searchingly at Charles.

“Are you really that upset about it?” he asks.

He’s not just asking about Frost.

“Cerebro?” Charles says. “Livid. Everything else?” He pauses, looks down at Erik, and can’t help the faint smile that spreads across his face. “No.”

The instant Charles gets home, though, he’s summoning Hank and ordering him to key Cerebro to Charles’s biosignature and only his. Erik will just have to come up with a new excuse next time.)


	3. (3) 1981 - New York City

It’s September. 

It’s September, which means that soon, the United Nations General Assembly will convene for their annual session. Ordinarily, of course, this isn't terribly remarkable. But this year is different; this is the year Charles convinced Erik to join him in petitioning the UN to bring mutants and mutant issues to the table. There’s just one problem: the finalized agenda sitting on Charles’s desk makes no mention of mutant rights or the current atrocities being committed against mutants around the world—or, indeed, of mutants at all.

Charles sighs and circles the date of the Assembly’s opening meeting in his calendar and tells the X-Men to keep it open. He hopes Erik won’t be foolish enough to try anything violent, but at the same time, he knows Erik all too well. 

Ah, well. The City _is_ lovely this time of year.

\---

Charles wakes up groggily to the ringing of the phone on his bedside table. He gropes around for a minute before he manages to latch on to the receiver and bring it to his ear.

“Hello?” he mumbles. 

“Charles,” Erik says. He sounds...determined. Damn it. 

“Erik,” Charles says urgently, bolting upright in the bed. “Whatever you’re planning to do, there are better ways to get the world’s attention—”

“We tried your way,” Erik says. “Now we’re trying mine. Don’t try to stop me, Charles.”

“Erik, _don’t_.”

“Too late,” Erik says, just as Storm and Cyclops burst into Charles's room and turn on his television. Charles stares for a moment. 

“Erik,” he says, fumbling his way out of bed into his chair, his eyes glued to the screen. “You _didn’t_.”

“I had to,” Erik replies defensively. “Maybe _now_ they’ll listen.” There’s a pause; Charles can hear screaming in the background. “I have to go.”

“Erik, wait—”

_Click._

Charles turns to Cyclops and Storm, who are watching him expectantly. He sighs.

“Assemble the team in the Blackbird. Ten minutes.”

\---

When they finally arrive in New York City, everything has descended into chaos. The police have cordoned off the area; they move to stop Charles and the X-Men from breaching the barrier, but a look from Charles makes them think better of it, and the team passes through unmolested. As they approach UN Plaza, the screaming gets louder, the camera crews more numerous, until they round the corner to see—

Oh, for Heaven’s sake.

For some reason, Erik has decided the best way to get the world to acknowledge that not only do mutants exist, but they also have rights, is to rip up all the water mains and form a mass of writhing...well, they look like nothing so much as metal tentacles, right in the middle of the street. At least he doesn't seem to have blown anything up, for a change. 

Actually, aside from the screaming and the massive metal tentacles and the water spouting everywhere, everything looks fairly calm. The Brotherhood is arrayed behind Erik (who is of course in his full Magneto garb), but they don't seem to be doing anything to harass the humans in the immediate vicinity. Even Erik's tentacles aren't _attacking_ the crowd; they're just creating a spectacle. 

Maybe there's some hope for a peaceful resolution to this after all. 

"Storm," Charles says softly. She nods, her eyes turning white. In a moment, the flow of water from the pipes has slowed to a trickle, the water on the ground evaporating. Charles beams proudly. Storm's grown so powerful, brought her powers under control so beautifully, and it’s a wonder to see. "Thank you," he says. She nods again, giving him a tight smile. 

He moves forward to talk to Erik. Maybe they can get this all cleared up by lunchtime, and then he can force Erik to take him out as an apology. It is Autumn in New York, after all; possibly the only time and place more romantic is April in Paris. 

But then:

Some idiot police officer, green and scared and trigger-happy, starts shooting—at _Storm_. The bullet gets nowhere near her, of course; Erik glares and stops it midair. It falls to the ground with a loud _clink_ that echoes through the deathly silence that's settled over the street. 

The tentacles rustle menacingly as Erik turns to face the culprit, who cowers and, Charles notes with no small amount of _schadenfreude_ , wets his pants. 

“See, Charles,” Erik calls. “See how they treat mutants, even those who help them. See how they run scared from us.” 

Oh, God, this can’t end well. Nothing ever ends well when Erik starts speechifying. 

And, of course, as soon as Charles thinks this, one tentacle flies out and wraps around the ankle of the unfortunate officer, hefting him high into the air and bouncing him up and down as he screams for help and fires uselessly at the writhing metal monster. Charles glares at Erik, willing him not to drop the man. He can tell Erik's thinking about it, but he also knows that Erik is aware, deep down (very deep down), that shedding human blood outside the UN will do nothing to help their case. 

In the end, Erik does drop the officer onto the pavement, though it’s thankfully not from a great enough height to do anything more than give him a lot of nasty bruises. The man sinks to the ground sobbing like a child, pressing his hands against the asphalt for reassurance. Everyone stares at him for a moment.

And then all hell breaks loose. 

The humans start shooting at the mutants, the mutants start fighting both the humans _and_ each other as the X-Men try to protect the few civilians still in the area from the Brotherhood (which, as usual, doesn't make any distinctions, going after civilians and law enforcement with equal aplomb) while simultaneously fending off the police and National Guard. Charles's finger is practically glued to his temple as he struggles to keep track of everything that's going on, to coordinate his team and at the same time keep as many people safe as possible. He turns from forcing a diplomat to dive out of the way of one of Riptide's tornados to helping Cyclops fight—oh, God—Mystique to forcing all the snipers on the roofs to dismantle their weapons and scatter the pieces, and looks up to find Erik standing in front of him, hand outstretched. For a moment, Charles regrets the necessity of using metal components in the power function of his wheelchair, but then he realizes Erik's attention is focused on a target behind him. 

Charles turns slowly to see a soldier hovering a few inches in the air, grappling with the chain of his dogtags as it tightens around his windpipe (and isn't _that_ distressingly familiar). The soldier's rifle lies mangled on the ground next to him. 

"Erik," Charles says, whirling around to face him. Erik's face is dark, pitiless. For once, Charles feels like he's looking at _Magneto_ , and he is honestly, truly terrified. "Erik!" he yells, wheeling forward until he’s right in front of him. Erik's eyes dart down momentarily, but it's as if he doesn't even see him. "Erik, stop," Charles pleads. "Stop, please stop." He reaches out cautiously and grips Erik's arm. 

Erik freezes. The soldier falls to the ground, gasping for breath, as Erik turns his full attention on Charles, his eyes still dark and terrifying. _Run away_ , Charles projects firmly to the soldier, who immediately gets up off his knees and vanishes into the crowd. 

“Erik,” Charles says quietly, squeezing Erik’s arm gently. “Erik, it’s me.” 

Erik blinks once, twice, eyes focusing as he slowly comes back to himself. Charles can see the moment Erik’s rage fades, changing swiftly to—fear?

"Charles," Erik says, dropping to his knees. His hands move frantically over Charles, caressing every inch of him. They linger for a moment on the back of Charles’s now-fully-bald head, fingertips pressing in urgently as Erik repeats Charles's name over and over. 

"Erik," Charles says cautiously. He takes Erik's wrists in his hands and gently frees himself from Erik’s grasp. "I'm here." 

"You're all right," Erik says, half a question. “You're—” His voice breaks, and he turns his wrists, still in Charles's grip, to clutch at Charles's forearms. 

And then it clicks. The soldier hadn't been aiming at Erik; he'd been aiming at _Charles_. Charles hadn't even noticed. 

"Yes," he says quietly. "Yes, I'm all right." Erik exhales heavily.

“Thank God,” he breathes, hands coming up to frame Charles’s face. “Thank God,” he repeats, before kissing Charles desperately. Charles finds himself responding, pulling Erik even closer, never mind that they’re in the middle of a battlefield. (It’s pretty clear that Erik’s forgotten; and Charles stopped caring about anyone or anything else the second Erik knelt in front of him.) After a moment, Erik pulls away, wraps his arms tightly—almost painfully—around Charles and buries his head in Charles's neck and inhales deeply. 

He stays there for a few moments, inhaling a few more times before he pulls back with a frown and sniffs the air. 

"You smell different," he says, standing up. 

…Oh, God. 

Charles purses his lips and says, "I have no idea what you're talking about." 

Erik leans forward over Charles and sniffs even more exaggeratedly. "No, you definitely smell different." He sniffs again, and then pulls back and points accusingly at Charles. "You've changed your cologne." His tone of voice suggests Charles has just killed Erik's favorite pet; Charles can hear the unspoken _How could you?_ laced through every word.

Charles crosses his arms and glares. "Well, they stopped making it! What was I supposed to do, mind-control them to keep them making it forever?"

"If that's what it would take," Erik growls.

" _Erik_ ," Charles says sternly, feeling as if he's lecturing one of his students. "I try very hard to set a good example and not use my powers frivolously—"

"Yes, responsibility, conscientiousness, being a good citizen, I know, I've heard the spiel," Erik says, waving his hand dismissively. "But you do also have enough money to have kept them in business forever—Hell, you could have bought the company!" 

"And what would I do with a fragrance company?" Charles shoots back. "You'd have me waste millions of dollars just to keep my cologne the same?" 

"Yes!" Erik shouts, gesticulating furiously. 

And then Charles notices that Erik's ‘yes’ just…echoed. He looks up, and realizes that _everyone_ —the X-Men, the Brotherhood, the diplomats, the police officers, the soldiers, the random civilians, the _news crews_ —is staring at them. Erik doesn't seem to have noticed, occupied as he is with waving like a madman and ranting about Charles and his money and the way he smells. Charles groans and pinches the bridge of his nose. 

"Erik," he hisses, very quietly, his other hand shooting out to still Erik's wrist. "We are in public right now, and the _entire world_ is watching. Would you _please_ control yourself?" Before Erik can protest or start venting again, Charles adds, a little quieter, "And besides, I thought you might like this one." 

He'd actually spent quite a long time trying to pick out a new cologne, sitting in the middle of the store and smelling each one until the store clerk had come over, shoved five samples into his hand, and kicked him out. He'd then spent a week trying them out, ranking them via two scales—how much he liked them, and how much ~~Erik~~ anyone else would probably like them—and even getting Hank to run a mass spectrometry analysis before finally landing on the brand he'd picked. So he can't deny that he'd rather hoped Erik would at least give it a chance. 

Erik blinks and sniffs the air again, an evaluative expression on his face. Then he leans in and says, low and dark, "Make everyone look away so I can determine for myself." 

"Erik, _really_ ," Charles says, but—oh, fuck it, it's been a long day, and he just wants to know if Erik still finds him attractive even without any of his hair, and anyway, Erik is giving him that _look_ … 

"Fine," he concedes. "Just this once." And he puts his hand to his temple, spreads his consciousness out, and makes everyone—mutant, human, soldier, diplomat, journalist, random person watching the scene from the building across the street—look away. He then goes one step further, making all the security guards in the nearby buildings turn the cameras away and the news crews turn off all their equipment. He comes back to himself panting and sees Erik looking around in wonder. 

Erik’s eyes snap to Charles’s, and Charles inhales sharply. He always forgets how arousing Erik finds obvious demonstrations of Charles’s power, and it's clear that if Erik had the power to burn Charles’s uniform off with his eyes, he would. Then Charles hears a faint _zzzzzip_. He looks down and sees that the zippers of the pockets on his thighs have started to come undone of their own accord. He yanks the tabs back up with a hot glare and holds them in place, flushing.

But Erik is undeterred. He licks his lips and steps closer, his eyes darting almost imperceptibly to the mass of tentacles _still_ writhing in the middle of the street, despite everything. Charles can almost see the gears turning in Erik’s head, no matter that he’s wearing that (less hideous but still no less ridiculous) helmet. 

“Oh, no,” Charles says sternly. “We are _not_ having sex in the middle of UN Plaza, Erik, for _God’s_ sake.” He hears rustling, followed by the groan of metal, and he glares. “And if one of those tentacles so much as touches any part of my wheelchair or my person, so help me, I am never sucking you off again.”

It’s an empty threat and they both know it, but it does what Charles intends and gives Erik pause. He throws Charles a pleading glance. Charles crosses his arms again and intensifies his glare. _Honestly_. It’s like dealing with a small child.

“ _Fine_ ,” Erik says. “But—”

“Yes, yes, come here, I can’t hold them off much longer,” Charles says, unfolding his arms and reaching out to Erik. Erik steps forward, bends down, plants his face in Charles’s neck, and inhales deeply. He pauses, then does it again. His hands flex—one of his tells—as he pulls away, his pupils heavily dilated and his breathing uneven. 

Charles hears a telltale _creak_ and looks down to see one of the tentacles just _inches_ from his right wheel. 

“ _Erik_ ,” he says firmly. 

“Fine, fine,” Erik grumbles. The tentacles slowly creep back, then, all at once, melt back into the complex network of pipes. 

Charles nods approvingly. Then, cautiously, he says, “...So?”

Erik is silent for a long moment before he admits, grudgingly, “I don’t hate it.” (Charles, well-versed in Erik’s particular brand of understatement and refusal to say what he actually feels by now, understands this to mean that if Charles changes his cologne again, Erik will destroy a small country—or at least threaten to do so.)

Charles smiles. “Good.” 

He then sighs and looks at the scene surrounding them, at all the people looking very fixedly in every direction but at the two of them. 

“I think,” Charles says very cautiously, “that enough damage has been done for today, don’t you?” 

Erik takes in the utter destruction they’ve left behind, then looks down at Charles and grins his shark’s grin, showing far too many teeth. “Is that a challenge, Charles?”

“Oh, dear God, _no_ ,” Charles replies immediately. He fixes his gaze on the long line of flags leading to the building housing UN Headquarters. “I think you’ve made your point as well as it can be made. They’ve now got three months to deliberate on it, and I think we should go”—he reaches down and starts playing with the tabs of the zippers on his thighs, flicking them up and down—“before we make things even _worse_.” He drags the tabs down ever so slightly, biting his lip. Beside him, Erik takes in a sharp breath. Charles grins. He then tilts his head to the side, baring his throat just a tiny bit, and says, his voice low and promising, “What do you think?”

Erik places his hand on Charles’s shoulder, his pinky just barely brushing up and down the side of Charles’s neck. 

“I think,” he says hoarsely, “that we should go.” 

Charles smirks.

  


(The next time Erik visits the mansion, he stops short just inside the window of Charles’s bedroom and stares at the enormous wrought-iron bed that’s replaced the wooden antique Charles used to have.

“I rather thought,” Charles says from the bed, where he’s been sitting up naked waiting for Erik, “that we might try something new tonight, especially since we were denied the pleasure in New York.” He smiles. Erik nearly trips over himself as he runs to the bed, undressing as quickly as he can, practically throwing the helmet across the room. In a moment, he’s on Charles, kissing him heatedly and bearing him down onto the dark red sheets.

Charles, hovering around the edges of Erik’s mind, feels Erik using his powers, notes how he senses his way along the metal of the bedframe and teases it out to form long, undulating lines. 

“You’re sure?” Erik asks, nipping at Charles’s lower lip.

“Are you?” Charles asks in return, raising an eyebrow in challenge. Erik grins. He leans down to Charles’s shoulder, breathes in—obviously checking if Charles has changed his cologne again, which, honestly, he could give him _some_ credit—before biting it lightly. 

“Yes,” he says. He then rolls off Charles to lie spread-eagled on the bed. Charles props himself up on one elbow and looks down at Erik, trailing a hand down his chest proprietarily. 

Above them, the lines of metal start to twine together, momentarily forming a writhing mass before spreading out and diving down to the bed.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit where credit is due: The metal tentacles were **Unforgotten** 's suggestion.


	4. (4) 1996 - Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters

It’s been a long day. A long, long, _long_ day, and as Charles sits in his study, half-watching Senator Kelly give the keynote at the Republican National Convention (read: rant about mutants on national television) while he goes through the school’s latest accounts, he knows it’s only going to get longer. 

As soon as Kelly finishes speaking, the phone on Charles's desk rings. He sighs as he switches off the television; there’s only one person who’d call him on his private line at this hour. For a moment, he seriously contemplates letting it go to the answering machine, but that’s hardly going to discourage the person on the other end of the line from calling again—and again, and again—until Charles answers. 

He rubs his hand over his face and picks up the phone.

“Hello, Erik,” he says.

“Did you see?” Erik erupts, nearly deafening Charles, who almost drops the receiver in self-defense. 

“Of course I did,” he replies evenly, once his heartbeat has settled somewhat. He then takes the receiver away from his ear and holds it gingerly at arm’s length, as if it’s liable to explode at any moment.

“I _told_ you,” Erik fumes, still clearly audible. “I _told_ you he was trouble, but you wouldn’t listen! And now we’ve got him talking about _registration_ and getting a standing ovation for it—” 

“I never disagreed with you,” Charles says, deciding to cut Erik off before he really gets going. (The last time Erik called to rant about something, Charles managed to finish grading an entire series of term papers as Erik yelled about—the continued shift of car materials from metal to plastic, or how the children in his neighborhood wouldn’t stay off his lawn, or something like that. To be honest, Charles hadn’t really paid attention; Erik calls him to rant about something or the other every other week at least, very little of it actually important.) 

“You never said you agreed,” Erik counters. 

"Not to you, no," Charles concedes. But then again, Erik can't really blame him; every time Charles acknowledges that Erik, for all his ranting, may have a point about _anything_ , Erik promptly becomes insufferable. (Or, rather, more insufferable than usual.) "But in this case—"

"Hold on, I think I need to mark this day on my calendar. Charles Xavier is admitting that I was _right_ about something."

"Hardly," Charles says drily. “I was _going_ to say that, since Senator Kelly has decided to ascend to greatness on the backs of every mutant in America and, if he has his way, the world, something must be done.”

It’s true that Kelly’s just one man, just one politician, but he’s had a surprising amount of influence both in Washington and with the American people in a relatively short period of time. It won’t be long before he steps onto the global stage, and once that happens, his incendiary language has a good chance of sparking a new round of human-mutant violence. They’ve come a long way in the past few years, and Charles will be damned if he sees a small-minded bigot destroy all of it overnight. 

There’s a long pause, and then Erik says, a little quieter, “I’m glad you see things my way.” 

“Not quite. I don’t think killing Kelly is the way to go. You’ll only make a martyr of him.”

“The man is a threat to every mutant!” Erik retorts, getting angry again. “You can’t just ask me to sit idly by while he keeps growing more and more powerful.” 

“And I’m not,” Charles says calmly, idly tracing nonsense patterns on his blotter with his finger. “Just...don’t do anything reckless. That’s all.”

“He can’t be allowed to continue—”

“Of course not. But in this case, as in nearly every case, violence isn’t the answer.” 

Charles can practically _hear_ Erik roll his eyes. 

“All right, fine,” Erik says. “What would _you_ do?”

“There are other, more effective ways to destroy a man than to kill him,” Charles says. “ _Especially_ a politician, and especially one who’s had such a meteoric rise to prominence.” He sighs. He wasn’t going to tell Erik this, but—“I’ve got a plan in motion. I’m handling it.” On the other side of the line, Erik sucks in a deep breath, clearly preparing to rant some more, probably about how Charles’s plans are ineffectual and amount to bending over backwards and letting the humans fuck them sideways (so very not true), and Charles adds hastily, “And if—if!—my plan doesn’t work, then you can try your way. Just...give me some time.” 

“There isn’t any time left,” Erik grumbles, but Charles can hear him starting to give in. 

“Two weeks,” Charles presses. “And if, after two weeks, Kelly’s still a problem”—he won’t be—“then do whatever you want; I won’t lift a finger to stop you.”

It’s a risky proposition, but Charles is confident his plan will work. The wheels are already turning, and it’s just a matter of greasing a few of them before Kelly’s star falls so far back into the gutter from whence he came that there won’t be any chance of him, or anyone like him, ever climbing back out. And if it doesn’t work...well. Sometimes the less extreme of Erik’s methods have their place. (Not that Charles would ever say as much to anyone, least of all Erik.)

Erik’s quiet for a long, long time, so long that Charles almost wonders if he’s still on the line—but no, he can hear Erik breathing. He waits.

Finally: 

“Fine,” Erik agrees. “But if it doesn’t work—”

“Fine,” Charles says, before Erik can say what he’ll do. It’s always best for him to maintain plausible deniability.

“Fine,” Erik echoes. 

Charles exhales heavily; crisis averted, at least for now. He’s all set for Erik to hang up so he can finish going through this paperwork and go to bed, already anticipating collapsing on his _very_ soft mattress and sleeping in tomorrow. 

But then Erik, always able to change on a dime, says slowly and carefully, as if they hadn’t been arguing about matters of actual consequence not even five minutes ago, “Tell me how you smell.”

Charles takes the receiver away from his head and stares at it in disbelief for a few seconds. 

“You must be _joking_ ,” he says, finally, returning the phone to his ear. “Do you _really_ think now is the time for phone sex?” 

“It’s _always_ time for phone sex,” Erik insists. 

“Oh, yes, except when you’re ranting to me about how you’re right and everyone else in the world is wrong; _then_ you just want me to sit here and nod and say, 'yes, dear,' and to hell with what _I_ may want." 

(Charles _may_ still be a tiny bit bitter from their last conversation, when Erik had promised phone sex if Charles would let him rant for fifteen minutes, and then, three hours later, he'd finished up and declared himself too tired, and really, Charles, what are all those fancy toys for, if not to help you get off when I'm not there?

Charles is still planning his revenge.)

"Charles," Erik all but whines. "Please?"

Charles sighs. On the one hand, he does need to get this work done, and he's quite tired. On the other, it's been a while since Erik's called, and even longer since they've last had sex, phone or otherwise, and—"Oh, fine," he grits out, making sure he sounds immensely put-upon. He shoves his papers to one side. "But you're doing all the work this time."

"All right," Erik says, sounding entirely too pleased with himself. “So,” he continues, his voice dropping half an octave, “Charles, how _do_ you smell?” 

Charles audibly sniffs himself and then, with a grin, says, “I think I smell pretty great, myself.” 

“You always do,” Erik says, in a tone that would be dismissive if not for its undercurrent of heat. “But...what do you smell _like_?”

Charles hesitates for a moment, not sure if he should tell Erik what scent he’s actually wearing (he’s had to change it again, and the fallout from that is _not_ going to be pleasant, so he’s been trying to keep it from Erik until the next time they’re actually together, in the hopes that he can keep Erik from rushing out and doing anything idiotic) or if he should make it up. Luckily, Erik takes matters out of his hands.

“Because you see,” he continues, his voice dropping with every syllable, “ _I_ think it’s a hint of lavender with grace notes of cedar and perhaps—perhaps—a _soupçon_ of Balinese sea sand.”

Oh, they’re going with the route of “make things up” tonight. Charles can work with that. (He certainly doesn’t have the heart to tell Erik he’s actually wearing Axe Body Spray.)

“We-ell...” Charles says, grinning, before Erik cuts him off curtly. 

“Don’t spoil this for me, Charles.” 

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Charles replies, smirk never leaving his face. “I was just going to say that that is _exactly_ how I smell.” 

“Good,” Erik says. He inhales slowly, audibly, then exhales just as loudly. “If I were there right now,” he murmurs, his voice resuming its previous deep tone, “I would lean in, my face millimeters from your neck, and just...breathe you in, all of you.”

Charles doesn’t say, _Then come here right now, right this instant_ , but it’s a close thing. 

“Mm,” he says instead. 

“And,” Erik continues, “I’d kiss you, and slide my hand up under your—” he pauses, and Charles grins in anticipation, knowing what’s coming next. After a moment, Erik asks, his voice back to its normal tone, “What _are_ you wearing?”

And there it is. 

Charles smirks. “I’m buck naked,” he declares, delighting in the way Erik’s breath hitches.

“...Really?” 

“No, not really, Erik.” Charles rolls his eyes. “I’m in my study, I’m hardly going to sit around in the nude while I do paperwork. I’m in my pajamas, the ones Jean gave me that you think are hideous—”

“They _are_ ,” Erik replies immediately, distaste woven all through his voice. 

“You’re only saying that because there’s no metal anywhere on them.”

“It’s a valid criticism.”

Charles snorts. “Of course it is.” 

There’s a long pause. Then Erik says, a little petulantly, “Aren’t you going to ask me what _I’m_ wearing?”

Charles smirks again. "Why, yes, Erik," he purrs, cradling the receiver, " _do_ tell me what you're wearing."

"I'm _actually_ naked," Erik replies, no small amount of pride in his voice. Charles rolls his eyes; the man is so unbelievably vain. 

(But if Charles is honest with himself, he's also rather turned-on by the thought of Erik talking to him on the phone while not wearing a stitch of clothing, legs splayed and cock prominent. The years have been far kinder to Erik, who's only grown more attractive over time— _and_ kept his full head of hair, the lucky bastard—than they have been to Charles.)

"And Charles?" Erik says, his tone suddenly seductive in a way that shoots straight to Charles's autonomic nervous system. "Take off your clothes."

Charles is suddenly hit with a wave of lust so strong that he nearly goes cross-eyed for a second before he gets himself back under control. He can't quite even out his breathing, though he tries valiantly as he says, again, "Erik, I'm in my _study_. I'm not getting naked in my study; it's terribly unprofessional."

Erik chuckles darkly. "That's the entire _point_ , Charles." He pauses, then says, his tone light, as if he's just had an interesting but mostly irrelevant thought, "Tell me, Charles, did you ever manage to get my come off your blotter?"

And now Charles can't get the memory of Erik's last visit out of his head, how he'd sat at his desk, Erik's back pressed to his chest, and fingered Erik open, riding along in Erik's mind, and how Erik had moaned and whined and mewled as Charles had slid his newest vibrator in and thrust it unerringly against Erik's prostate, both of them shaking by the time Erik had finally come all over Charles's desk.

“I fail to see how that’s relevant,” Charles replies, his voice a bit more unsteady than he’d intended. He starts toying with the top snap of his pajama top, stopping just short of undoing it. 

“That’s a no, then,” Erik says, his voice unbearably smug. To be fair, Charles had only made a half-hearted effort to clean up afterwards, not really _wanting_ to erase the reminder of Erik yelling and cursing and writhing so beautifully. And if he sometimes touches the large spot in the center of his blotter with a secretive smile on his face and arousal thrumming through every cell of his body, that’s his business and no one else’s. 

But he won’t make this easy for Erik; that’s just not how they work. 

“...I refuse to dignify that with a response,” he says. 

Erik, however, doesn’t rise to the bait, and just laughs. 

“Take off your clothes, Charles,” he says again, using his Command Voice, which he _knows_ never fails to turn Charles on, the cheat. And then, just to be an ass, he continues, voice so low Charles has to strain to hear it, “You know you want to be bad.” 

“...Right, fine,” Charles says, once he’s sure he can speak without moaning. “I’ll take them off. But I want it noted for the record that you aren’t playing fair.” 

“When do I ever?” 

...Point. 

Charles starts unsnapping his buttons, taking care to make it as loud as possible so Erik can hear. He’s just glad no one’s nearby—the students are all in bed, even if they’re not asleep, and the adults are all on the other side of the mansion. When all the buttons are undone, he puts down the receiver momentarily to shrug his top off, dropping the fabric to the floor unceremoniously. 

“There,” he says, picking the phone back up. “Top’s off.” 

“ _All_ your clothes off, Charles,” Erik chastens. “Do I need to take you through it step-by-step?”

“Yes,” Charles breathes, his answer slipping out before he has a chance to think better of it.

Erik hums lowly, obviously pleased. He’s quiet for a moment, and then he says, “Pinch your nipples, hard”—Charles does, and moans theatrically—“then trail your hand down your chest, and undo the buttons of the bottoms of your pajamas one...by...one.” Charles, feeling _slightly_ silly and self-conscious, puts the receiver by his crotch so Erik can hear the buttons unsnapping. Erik’s groan of approval is still clearly audible (seriously, Charles is so glad Erik isn’t overseas any more; it’s improved the quality of their phone calls exponentially). 

“Right,” Charles says, his voice somewhat breathy when he puts the phone back to his ear. “They’re undone.”

“Pull them off,” Erik orders. “And those ridiculous silk boxers you’re no doubt wearing, too.”

Charles smirks. “Not wearing any.” 

“ _Charles_.” Erik’s voice has gone even darker. “How delightfully depraved of you.” He sounds thrilled, and Charles’s smirk widens.

“Mm.” Charles rests the phone on his blotter, and uses one hand to leverage himself against the desk so he can lift himself up just enough to push his pants past his arse. He then sits back down and, with some maneuvering, manages to slide them all the way off. 

The things he does for Erik, honestly. 

“All right, completely naked in my study,” Charles says, picking the phone back up. He starts absently tracing his hand over his torso, lingering momentarily on his nipples and stroking that one spot on his side that never fails to make him shiver. He lowers his voice and says, with meaning, “I’m all yours, Erik; do with me as you will.”

Erik exhales shakily. “God, _Charles_ ,” he breathes, but he doesn’t say anything else. 

“Come on, Erik,” Charles urges, fingers pressing harder, breath hitching ever so slightly. “You can’t tell me you have no ideas for what you’d do to me if you were here right now.” 

“Oh, believe me,” Erik growls, “that is _not_ a problem.”

“So what’s keeping you?” Charles flicks a nipple and hisses. He repeats the action with the other nipple, saying, “I feel it only fair to tell you— _ah_ —that until you come up with something, I’m just going to sit here— _oh_ —enjoying myself, so”—he props the phone between his ear and shoulder and pinches both nipples into peaks, hard, and gasps loudly—”you’d better get a move on.”

“Stop—stop that,” Erik grits out. 

“Whyever should I?” Charles asks, finally letting his hands trail below his navel to see if his cock’s interested tonight—and oh, how lovely, tonight is one of those once-in-a blue-moon nights. (Now it’s _really_ a pity Erik’s not here; those nights are always more fun when Charles isn’t alone.) 

Charles lets out a louder-than-usual moan as he strokes his cock, once, twice, and breathes, “What’ll you—do to me—if I don’t?”

“I’d grab your wrists,” Erik says sharply, apparently jolted from his indecision, “and hold them in place, just inches from your chest, so you’d _almost_ be able to touch yourself, but not quite.” Charles closes his eyes, his hands stilling, the phone nearly slipping from its position on his shoulder. He grabs the receiver with a glare, thinks for a moment, and then makes a quick mental scan. No one's nearby; no one's even close to being in earshot. He puts the phone on the desk, turns on the speakerphone, and listens with bated breath. 

Erik's voice fills the room as he continues, “And I’d let you struggle for a few seconds before I let you go, but you wouldn’t try to touch yourself again. And then I’d sit in your lap and put your hand on my cock, and you’d stroke it as I leaned in and bit you, very lightly, on the neck.”

“Yes,” Charles breathes, elongating the _s_ as his hands clench and unclench on the armrests of his chair.

“And you’d smell so good, so _perfect_ , especially right _there_ —you know the place, right at your pulse—and I’d just...press my face into your neck and breathe in as I fucked into your fingers—” Erik’s breath hitches, and Charles knows he’s jerking himself off right now. The temptation to do the same is almost overwhelming.

Then Erik groans loudly, and that’s it; Charles’s hands go for the hidden compartment at the back of his top drawer, and he pulls out the small tube of lube he’s taken to keeping there (Erik's fault, of course). He pours a small dollop into one hand, which goes back to stroking his cock, the specific sensation distant even as the arousal it generates floods through the rest of his body. 

"And then?" he prompts breathlessly, once he’s got a rhythm going. The steady stream of grunts and muttered imprecations from Erik's side of the line pauses. 

"And then," Erik says a moment later, his voice hoarse, "I'd sit up to kiss you, and you'd moan and your mouth would open under mine"—and here Charles does moan, imagining the press of Erik's lips against his, the way Erik would plunder his mouth, try to devour him—"and you'd take the hand that wasn't stroking me off and bury it in my hair and _pull_ "—they both gasp—"and then I'd touch you, touch you everywhere, your spine, your arms, your head, your chest, your nipples, your stomach—"

"My cock," Charles adds, giving it a particularly long stroke, feeling more triumphant with every second it hasn't sagged in his fist. There's a brief pause.

Then Erik asks, hesitantly, "It's—" 

"Yes," Charles says. Erik exhales slowly, and Charles continues, "And hurry it up; I'm not sure how much longer I can keep this up."

"Yes, fine, all right," Erik replies, more breathless than before. "And I'd touch your cock, but I wouldn't stay there, I'd go back to your nipples because you love it when I play with those—"

"I do," Charles breathes, his free hand coming up to tug urgently at his nipples. He arches as much as he can in the chair. "I do, I do, keep doing that—"

"I won't stop," Erik promises. "I'll just keep at them, pinching and pulling and teasing, and then one of my hands will move to your back, and find that spot on your spine that always makes you yell—"

" _God_ , yes, _Erik_ —"

"And then you'll move your hand from my hair and trail it down my back to my ass, and you'll— _Charles_ —" Erik trails off into a loud moan, his breathing loud and heavy and filling every inch of Charles's study. 

And then Charles picks up the thread: 

“And I’ll knead at it, first one cheek, then the other, in the exact same rhythm that I’m using to pull you off, and I’ll trail my finger up and down the crease of your arse, so lightly that you won’t even be sure I’m doing it, and you’ll stop kissing me and you’ll bury your head in my shoulder and breathe me in, too overcome, though you’ll— _ah_ —still keep working my nipples and my back—”

“Yes, Charles, _yes_ —”

“And then you’ll be close, so close—we’ll _both_ be close—and I’ll stop tracing your arsehole and slip my finger in, just the slightest bit, and then—and then—”

Erik yells, and Charles pulls his hand up from his cock and squeezes his nipples, _hard_ , and then they’re coming, both coming, spilling out a litany of curses and promises and each other’s names—

And when Charles comes back to himself, breathing heavily, his cock’s gone limp again, a small trickle of semen pooling on the seat of the chair. He reaches down and scoops it up with two fingers, then presses it against the dark spot of his blotter, smearing his come together with Erik’s.

  


(Exactly two weeks later, Erik shows up in Charles’s study for the third night in a row (the first: for sex; the second: to yell at Charles for changing his cologne again, but mostly so they could have angry, passionate makeup sex) and dumps a large sheaf of newspapers on the desk.

“This was you, wasn’t it,” he says, not quite a question. Charles looks at the headlines, all declaring things along the lines of “KELLY SCANDAL” and “THE TRUTH ABOUT WHY ROBERT KELLY HATES MUTANTS: HIS SECRET MUTANT-LOVING PAST” and “ROBERT KELLY: LIAR, PERVERT, SEX ADDICT?” in huge, bold letters. He folds his hands primly, though he can’t keep a faint smile from creeping onto his face.

“I didn’t have the foggiest notion about any of this,” he replies, his voice as posh as he can make it—which is a dead giveaway, of course it is, but that’s the whole _point_.

“Don’t lie, Charles; this has your fingerprints all over it,” Erik replies. He smirks, pulling off the helmet and dropping it to the floor before sitting on the edge of the desk. “How’d you do it?”

“How do you _think_?” Charles retorts. He smiles. “Mystique”—he holds up one paper, whose front page shows Kelly in the embraces of a number of different women, some of them obviously mutants—“and Emma,” he says, pointing to another one, where Emma, in diamond form, is adorning Kelly’s arm. (“I didn’t even have to mind-control him,” Emma’d told Charles afterwards with disgust. “He just took one look at my rack and started salivating; didn’t even notice when I started sparkling.”) “And a few judiciously placed photographers and private investigators, of course.” He puts the papers back on his desk, arranges the entire group into a neat stack and shoves it to the side. 

“So,” he says, folding his hands together. “Good enough for you?”

Erik shrugs, but the quirking of the corner of his lips gives him away. “It’ll do,” he says, leaning in and kissing Charles. “For now.”

Charles laughs. “I’ll take it,” he says, and pulls Erik down to kiss him again.)


	5. (5) 2011 - New York City

Charles sits in front of the stairs leading up to City Hall, Erik standing by his side. They clutch each other’s hands for dear life as they look up at the building’s façade, taking in its Ionic columns, its arched windows, the rotunda at the top. 

“It doesn’t have to be today,” Charles says, not looking at Erik, looking everywhere but at Erik. “We can come back tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow sounds good,” Erik replies. “Tomorrow sounds perfect, actually. Let’s come back tomorrow.” He tugs on Charles’s hand and they turn to go. They’re halted by Mystique, who crosses her arms and taps her foot exasperatedly, Emma flanking her and wearing the most disinterested expression Charles has ever seen as she pretends to examine her cuticles.

“Today,” Mystique says, her tone brooking no argument. “We’re not leaving here until you’ve gotten what you came for.”

“We’ll just sit right here, then,” Charles decides, folding his arms. “We’ll sit here until tomorrow.”

Emma snorts, still not looking up. “Sugar, don’t you think you’re being a bit ridiculous?”

“I’m not ready!” Charles protests. He turns to Erik for support. “ _We’re_ not ready!” Erik nods fervently.

“Five decades of this and they haven’t got any smarter,” Mystique grumbles to Emma. “How have they stayed together?”

“Sheer incompatibility with anyone else,” Emma replies. Charles glares and reaches out to her, hoping to nudge her _just_ a little bit into seeing things his way, but she’s gone diamond before he’s barely even finished his thought.

“Uh-uh-uh,” she says, wagging a glittering finger at him. “We made a promise. And you two are going into that building if we have to carry you in.”

“Oh, I bet the papers would love that,” Mystique says, turning to her with a grin. “The world’s two most powerful mutants carried into New York City Hall by two _girls_ because they’re too terrified to—”

Erik shushes her frantically. “Don’t _say it_ ,” he hisses. 

“Oh, for _fuck’s_ sake,” she bursts out. “Go in, before we make you!” She glares at Charles. “We promised we wouldn’t come in, but that’ll change if we have to drag you. Also: People are starting to _stare_ , Charles, don’t you think you should go in so they’ll stop?”

And, indeed, when Charles looks around, they seem to have amassed quite an audience. Even though Erik isn’t in his Magneto costume—he all but gave that up three years ago, and now only pulls it out for special occasions (read: roleplay)—Charles and Mystique and Emma are still more than recognizable, and _everyone_ knows about Charles and Erik at this point. On top of that, there’s been only one real reason why anyone’s come to New York City Hall this past week. It doesn’t take much to come to the right conclusions, and it’s only a matter of time before people start snapping pictures with their cell phone cameras. 

“Erik,” he says, tugging urgently on Erik’s hand. “Erik, I think we may have to go inside.”

Erik looks down at Charles with wide, terrified eyes. “You mean we _have_ to do this today?”

“It would appear so.”

“Oh, for—” Emma throws up her hands. “Anyone would think you two don’t want to get—”

Charles and Erik shush her loudly, drowning out her last word. 

“People might _hear_ ,” Charles hisses. 

“They _know_ ,” Emma and Mystique say in unison.

“ _Everyone_ knows,” Mystique continues. She sighs, puts her hands on her hips. “Now. Move your asses, and go. Inside. Right. Now, or I won’t be responsible for my actions.”

“But—”

“ _Now_.” She points at the door, her gold eyes flashing. Grumbling, Erik and Charles go. 

\---

Twenty minutes later, Charles and Erik are standing in front of a Justice of the Peace, facing each other, and Charles is wondering why the _hell_ he let himself sober up before coming here. Being soused would have made this whole thing much easier to handle. 

Erik doesn’t look like he’s faring much better.

“Now,” says the Justice, a tall woman with a no-nonsense attitude that reminds Charles strikingly of Moira. “Here’s the part where it’s customary for you to say your vows, if you have any.” She gives them an inquiring look.

Both men fumble in their pockets and pull out very wrinkled sheets of notebook paper. The Justice looks over her glasses at them with something resembling disdain (actually, Charles can read her mind; he _knows_ it’s disdain). 

“Charles first,” Erik demands, resembling nothing so much as a petulant three-year-old. Charles rolls his eyes. 

“Fine,” he says, unfolding the vows he wrote last night. “Erik Lehnsherr,” he says, and—oh, he can’t say this next bit, that’s rather obscene, and no, not that next bit, either, that’s got a...good God, a _quatrain_ written about the precise shades of Erik’s eyes, and oh, there’s an ode to Erik’s hands, which would be nice if it weren’t interspersed with a sonnet about Erik’s mouth and his _massive_ cock (and yes, that is exactly what Charles wrote last night, honestly, how drunk had he _been_?), and then that next bit is the awful, awful run-on sentence he wrote this morning in a frantic rush when he woke up and realized he hadn’t actually written much that was _legible_ last night, let alone anything usable...

Right. He’s just going to have to wing it.

Fuck. 

“Erik Lehnsherr,” Charles says again, folding the paper back up and tucking it into his pocket. Erik’s eyes widen as he realizes that yes, Charles is actually doing this extemp. “Erik,” Charles repeats, floundering. He closes his eyes, thinking momentarily. After a few seconds, he opens his eyes and smiles. 

“Right, then,” he says. “Erik Lehnsherr, I love you; I’ve been in love with you ever since we first met, and it’s been the longest five decades of my life, but I wouldn’t give them up for anything—hell, I’d spend another five decades with you if I could. And even though I very much doubt I’ll _live_ another five decades, I certainly want to spend the rest of the time I’ve got left married to you,” and then he adds, feeling a bit wicked, “even if all your hair falls out and you stop being able to get it up.” Erik glares, but it’s a half-hearted sort of thing. Charles beams beatifically in return before he turns to look at the Justice of the Peace, who’s raising an eyebrow at him but otherwise showing no reaction to his...unconventional vows. (Frankly, Charles is sure she’s heard far, far worse.)

“And now,” Charles continues, still looking at her, “I’ve got to say some sort of rubbish about loving and cherishing him for as long as we both shall live, and then I do, yes?”

She shrugs one shoulder. “That’s customary, yes, but it’s entirely up to you.”

“All right,” he says. He takes Erik’s hand, and looks up at him— _really_ looks—

And suddenly, this is no longer funny, no longer a joke, no longer a tedious chore that Charles just has to grit his teeth and bear. Erik is looking at him with the same sort of look he wore on his face the first time Charles stepped out of Cerebro, the first time he smelled Charles in a cheap motel room, the first time they had sex (and every time after), the first time Erik came to the school and saw Charles teaching a class—and so many other times, including the one when Charles woke up to find a simple platinum-lined steel band on his nightstand, the word _Serenity_ engraved on the inside, and then turned to Erik, who was looking at him as if Charles held the fate of the world in his hands, and said, his voice thick, “Yes, of course, you daft idiot, of _course_.”

Charles’s eyes well up and his hands start shaking, just a little. This is _Erik_ , for God’s sake, and they’re getting _married_ , and Erik is _never leaving again_ , and—oh, God, he needs to pull himself together before he starts sobbing uncontrollably in front of Erik and the Justice of the Peace and the two (very bored-looking) witnesses.

“Erik Lehnsherr,” Charles chokes out, hands shaking as he pulls out the wedding band Erik had made for himself (its engraving reads _Rage_ ) with his right hand and takes Erik’s left hand in his own, “you absolute _bastard_ , I take you as my wedded husband, as long as we both shall live—and then bloody well after, because it’s been long enough, and I think we’re _owed_ , damn it.” And by this point, his hands are shaking so badly that he drops the ring on the floor, and it rolls somewhere under his chair. Wonderful. There’s no way he’s recovering that on his own. 

But before Charles can say anything: “Here,” Erik says, kneeling, “let me.” And then, because neither of them is in their right mind, Erik starts feeling around under Charles’s wheelchair, and oh, now this whole thing has turned into an absolute farce. 

After a minute or so, Charles hisses, “ _Erik_.”

“Yes?” Erik asks, his face somewhere in the vicinity of Charles’s knees. 

“Are you, or are you not, able to control magnetic fields and therefore able to retrieve your ring _without_ feeling around on your hands and knees while also feeling me up and giving all of these people a private show?”

“Oh,” Erik says, flushing as he sits back on his haunches. “Right.” He raises his hand in his customary gesture, and the ring whizzes out from under the wheelchair and lands in the center of his palm with a _smack_. 

“Here,” he says, leaning forward and dropping it into Charles’s outstretched hand. He’s about to stand up when he pauses. 

Then Erik sniffs the air, and oh, dear _God_ , not _here_ , not _now_. 

“Erik,” Charles hisses, as Erik moves closer. “Erik, for God’s sake, control yourself!” But Erik isn’t listening, his eyes half-glazed with lust as he continues to encroach on Charles’s personal space, and Charles sighs and resigns himself to his fate.

Not that it’s a terrible fate; Erik is nothing if not a fantastic kisser (as several of the short, filthy limericks Charles wrote last night attest). And when Charles finally gives up on propriety and relaxes, his mouth parting obligingly under Erik’s and his free hand coming up to fist itself in the lapel of Erik’s suit jacket, he loses himself completely in Erik, twining their minds together and pulling him closer, closer, as if he’s trying to melt them into one being. The world falls away for a few glorious, shining moments—

And then the Justice clears her throat loudly, dragging them rather rudely back down to Earth. From the look she gives them as they pull apart, Charles blushing furiously and Erik looking unbelievably smug as he licks his lips, this isn’t the first time she’s tried to interrupt them. 

“Terribly sorry about that, won’t happen again,” Charles says, with a stern look at Erik, who just grins as widely as he can. Charles rolls his eyes. 

_Honeymoon_ , he tells Erik firmly. Erik snorts. 

_You can’t blame me when you smell that good,_ he replies. 

_I’ve been using this body spray for fifteen years, I’d have thought you’d have learned some self-control in that time,_ Charles chides. 

_I’m pretty sure it’s supposed to be romantic that it still turns me on,_ Erik replies, smirking. _Have you no romance in your heart, Charles?_

_Plenty. I just prefer it all be in_ private.

The Justice coughs pointedly, tapping her foot impatiently.

“If we could continue,” she says, when they look up at her. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we’ve kind of been in high demand as of late, and I’d actually like to see my kids tonight.” 

“Right,” Charles says briskly. He takes Erik’s hand, says, “I do,” and deftly slips the ring onto Erik’s finger, then releases his hand and gives him an expectant look. 

Erik, still on his knees, pulls out Charles’s ring from his pocket with a shaky smile. 

“Charles,” he says, gentler than Charles has ever heard him. “Charles, I—” He sighs and looks off to the side for a moment. Then he turns back to face Charles, and he looks—scared. Charles reaches out and takes his hand, sending a pulse of reassurance. Erik looks back, meets Charles’s eyes, opens his mouth—and then closes it again. He opens and closes it a few more times, and now _Charles_ is starting to get impatient, too. 

“Erik—” he says, and Erik glares. 

“I already made the rings, that should be enough; now I have to _say_ things, too?” he grumbles.

“Didn’t you write something last night?”

Erik holds up his piece of paper, which is alternately blank and covered in illegible scribbles that, when Charles tilts his head and squints, _might_ say something like, “Electric blue eyes” (dear _God_ ) and “FUCK” and, crossed out, “Charles’s cocksucking lips”—

Right, okay, apparently Erik’s notes are as useful as Charles’s were. 

“Weren’t you just saying you were romantic?” Charles smirks. Erik rolls his eyes. 

“Not in _this_ context,” he hisses. 

“Just...say something,” Charles says, casting a worried look at the Justice of the Peace, who is looking distinctly displeased. “I don’t care, just...let’s finish up, please?”

“Right,” Erik says, visibly steeling himself. “Charles—” he trails off again, then tilts his head. “Right, I’m supposed to say something deep and profound, but all I’ve got is...I _love_ you, you bald asshole, and—seriously, I made you rings, doesn’t that say enough?”

“It does,” Charles says indulgently, squeezing Erik’s hand. “Now, say something about taking me as your husband, and then we can get out of here—” _and fuck like rabbits,_ he adds in Erik’s head. 

“Yes, all right,” Erik says. “Charles Xavier, I—take you as my husband, my lover, my partner, my friend, for—forever, how does forever sound?”

And oh, God, now Charles is getting choked up again, this is ridiculous. “Forever sounds perfect,” he manages to say, unable to keep a tear from slipping down his cheek. 

“Right, then, forever,” Erik says, with such certainty that Charles is left speechless. Then Erik takes Charles’s hand in both of his, ring floating beside him—

_Don’t you even dare_ think _about it; you’re using your hands, or not at all,_ Charles says, though it’s more fond than acerbic.

_Fine,_ Erik huffs. He plucks the ring out of the air; their gazes lock—and all the breath flies out of Charles at the look in Erik’s eyes. 

“ _Ani l'dodi, v'dodi li_ ,” Erik intones quietly, sliding the ring onto Charles’s finger. Charles gives him a watery smile, his heart full to bursting; he knows what it means for Erik to use the words of his mother’s people in this moment.

As soon as the ring is in place, Charles leans forward and presses their foreheads together, showing Erik everything he’s feeling, breathing in everything _Erik’s_ feeling—and then it’s Erik’s turn to let a few tears spill over. 

They stay there for a moment, just soaking each other in, and then Erik draws back and turns to the Justice of the Peace, who blinks furiously for half a second before adopting an expression that suggests she’s about to punch the air—or maybe the two of them, Charles can’t tell (mostly because she’s not sure herself).

“Can you pronounce us married now?” Erik says quietly, freeing one of his hands to gently thumb away Charles’s tears before he swipes hurriedly at his own cheeks. 

“Oh, dear Lord, yes,” she says, slamming her book shut. “By the power vested in me by the state of New York, I now pronounce you husband and husband.” They lean in to kiss, but she moves the book down to block them. “Now sign your certificate and get the _hell_ out of my office.”

They don’t need to be told twice.

  


(That night, in between Charles drunkenly reciting poetry celebrating Erik’s cock and Erik spontaneously spouting sonnets to Charles’s “gorgeous cocksucking lips, and also, the way you smell” and the two of them fucking more than they thought they _could_ in the space of twelve hours, Charles looks up from where he’s pillowed his head on Erik’s thigh and says, “Did Emma and Mystique look different to you when we met them outside, after we—after?”

“...No,” Erik says, reaching down and tugging Charles up to kiss him. 

“Huh,” Charles says a few minutes later, once he’s recovered his breath. He rolls to the side and reflexively pillows Erik’s head in the crook of his neck. Erik inhales deeply before nuzzling against him; they both sigh contentedly. Charles pets Erik’s hair absently and continues, “I could have sworn they were practically...glowing.” 

“Didn’t notice anything,” Erik mumbles. He breathes in again, and then says, “I still think we should have kept that pre-nup.”

“Erik,” Charles chides, rolling his eyes, “it consisted of one line that said ‘Charles Xavier shall not change his cologne, scent, or any other product relevant to the way he smells, not now, not ever, and if Axe ever tries to change their Body Spray, the aforementioned Charles Xavier will’—and I quote—‘“mind-whammy” them to prevent this.’”

“Mm,” Erik says, burrowing further into Charles’s neck. “Seemed perfectly valid to me.”

Charles laughs, twining his left hand with Erik’s and listening to the soft _clink_ of their rings. “You’re mad,” he says fondly. “Completely, utterly mad.”

“You love it,” Erik says, lifting his head and joining Charles in staring at their interlaced fingers. 

“I do,” Charles agrees, unable to wipe the smile from his face as he leans in and kisses Erik. “God help me, but I do.”)


	6. (+1) 2011 - Somewhere in the middle of nowhere

“ _Erik_ ,” Charles moans. “Erik, Erik, _Erik_ —”

“Yes, Charles, _yes_ ,” Erik groans, grinding himself down on Charles’s cock, alternating between suckling at Charles’s nipples and kissing him messily, with an occasional nip to Charles’s neck thrown in every now and again just to keep Charles on his toes. “Oh, _fuck_ , yes!” 

Charles fumbles at Erik’s waist for a moment before his hands close around his cock. “Come on,” he mutters, his face screwed up in concentration as he strokes in counterpoint to the rhythm at which Erik is currently riding him. “Come on, come on, _come on_ —”

And with a shout, Erik sinks all the way down onto Charles and comes, shooting all over Charles’s naked chest. He collapses forward and lies still for a moment before gently, ever so gently, detaching himself from Charles’s still-hard cock. He stares at it for a second, then slides down the bed and takes Charles into his mouth, bobbing his head up and down a few times as Charles’s breath hitches. Erik knows, though, that he’s more turned-on by the picture Erik makes than by the actual sensation of having his cock sucked, so after a few more moments, he pulls off and slithers back up Charles’s body. He claims Charles’s lips with his own as his hands start stroking and pinching every inch of Charles’s torso, focusing on the spots where he knows Charles is particularly sensitive. 

“Erik,” Charles gasps, when they break apart for air, “Erik, I think I’m going to—”

“Go on,” Erik says, reaching down and stroking Charles’s cock once, twice, thrice, before leaning in and biting Charles’s neck and pinching Charles’s side at the same time. Charles yells and comes, his mind sparking and flaring so brilliantly that Erik forgets himself for a few moments. 

When he’s once again aware of where he ends and where Charles begins, he’s again collapsed on Charles’s chest, their come pooling and mixing together on both their stomachs. They both lie there for a few minutes, catching their breath, their hands absently running over every part of each other they can reach. 

“Fuck, I love Viagra,” Erik breathes into Charles’s sternum. Charles laughs, the vibrations resonating through Erik’s entire body. 

“That makes two of us,” he says. “I just wish they’d invented it sooner.”

“At least we have it now.”

“True,” Charles says, and they both fall silent again, content to just listen to their breathing sync up. 

Finally, after several minutes, Charles says, “Ugh,” and starts shoving ineffectually at Erik’s shoulder. “Up, get up, it’s starting to dry, and if we don’t clean it off now we’ll itch all day.” Erik sighs exaggeratedly as he staggers up and to the bathroom, wets a washcloth, and throws it on Charles’s chest.

“There,” he exhales, flopping onto the bed beside him. Charles wipes himself off, then Erik, before sitting up and throwing the towel unceremoniously on the floor to join the not-inconsiderable pile they’ve already generated. It’s the fourth day of their honeymoon, and Erik’s not sure the two of them have _ever_ fucked this much, not even when they were young and virile and in that first flush of love and youth and possibilities, nearly fifty years ago. (God, has it really been that long?)

“Yes, yes it has,” Charles mumbles. He reaches out blindly, hand closing on Erik’s bicep, and he pulls him closer, peremptory and demanding even after ( _especially_ after) some of the best sex they’ve ever had. “And you were stupid and I was an ass, but we’re married now, so I suppose it all worked out.” 

Erik turns in Charles’s embrace and leans up to kiss him. “I guess it did,” he says. He spends a moment thinking about slow-burning couples—and then starts shaking with laughter. Charles peeks in to see what Erik finds so funny, and then starts chuckling himself.

“Did you even know about them?” he asks. 

“An inkling, once, long ago,” Erik says, grinning. “Not recently, though.” 

“They said it all started again with the Kelly plot, fifteen years ago,” Charles laughs. “Can you honestly believe—”

“Mystique and Emma?” Erik asks, grinning up at him. “Never in a million years.”

“And yet,” Charles says, his face suddenly becoming serious as he looks down at Erik. 

“And yet,” Erik agrees, solemnly. He kisses Charles again, deeper and more passionately than before, Charles responding in kind; but it’s not the sort of kiss that’s intended to lead anywhere. After a few minutes, Erik pulls away, closes his eyes and buries his face in Charles’s neck, his default now for so many years. He breathes in, inhaling that particular mixture of Axe Body Spray, sweat, sex, and _Charles_ that he loves so much, content to stay there forever—but Charles shoves him off, making a face. 

“Ugh,” he groans, holding Erik back, covering the top half of his face with his other hand. “How can you even—God, I must smell _disgusting_.”

Erik grins and shakes his head as he leans back in and kisses Charles’s neck, closing his eyes and taking a good long whiff. He opens his mind and pulls Charles in, shows how, to him, Charles smells of _sex_ and _love_ and _home_ and _perfect_ , like everything Erik has ever wanted, like everything he’ll ever want. There’s a sharp intake of breath, and Charles’s arms tighten around Erik, pressing the two of them even closer together. 

Erik smirks against Charles’s neck as he breathes in again, and thinks, as he reaches out and twines their left hands together, _You’ve never smelled more beautiful, darling._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few final notes: Again, a huge thank you to **unforgotten** —the Mystique/Emma bit is all for her. I pretty much owe her my second-born at this point. And thank you to everyone who read and commented, both here and on the kinkmeme—I love you all! ♥

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Something Elemental (The What's That Smell? Remix)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2074950) by [professor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/professor/pseuds/professor)




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